At Small Heath Station

These walls now scored with scratch-black graffiti
Hide robot metal eyes which peer along the tracks
And dance to the hinge-song of a gate, cast iron
Revelling among the glories of the past

These tracks lead from nowhere to oblivion
Those eyes bleed with a terror of decision
The rusty lines gather and ebb and flow
Contour concrete, will heap and throw

Those ancient engines heaving glow
By smoke stack crowds of evening chimneys
Pleasure doused
By grey night clouds